The dancers of Saturday night, the congregation of Sunday, on Monday afternoon were scattered. Mrs. 218 Caope’s and another boat dropped off the river to visit friends, and mid-afternoon found Parson Rasba and Prebol alone again, drawing down toward Mendova.
Prebol knew that town, and he told Rasba about it. He promised that they would see something of it, but they could not make it that evening, so they landed in Sandbar Reach for the night. Just after dawn, while the rising sun was flashing through the tree tops from east to west, a motorboat driving up stream hailed as it passed.
“Ai-i-i, Prebol! Palura’s killed up!”
Prebol shouted out for details, and the passer-by, slowing down, gave a few more:
“Had trouble with the police, an’ they shot him daid into his own dance floor—and Mendova’s no good no more!”
“Now what the boys goin’ to do when they make a haul?” Prebol demanded in great disgust of Parson Rasba. “Fust the planters shot up whiskey boats; then the towns went dry, an’ now they closed up Palura’s an’ shot him daid. Wouldn’t hit make yo’ sick, Parson! They ain’t no fun left nowheres for good sports.”
Rasba could not make any comment. He was far from sure of his understanding. He felt as though his own life had been sheltered, remote from these wild doings of murders and shanty-boat-fleet dances and a congregation assembling in a gambling boat handed to him for a mission! He could not quite get his bearings, but the books blessed him with their viewpoints, as numerous as the points of the compass. He could not turn a page or a chapter without finding something that gave him a different outlook or a novel idea.
They landed in late on Monday at Mendova bar, just above the wharf. Up the slough were many shanty-boats, 219 and gaunt dogs and floppy buzzards fed along the bar and down the wharf.
Groups of men and women were scattered along both the slough and the river banks, talking earnestly and seriously. Rasba, bound up town to buy supplies, heard the name of Palura on many lips; the policemen on their beats waltzed their heavy sticks about in debonair skilfulness; and stooped, rat-like men passing by, touched their hats nervously to the august bluecoats.
When Rasba returned to the boat, he found a man waiting for him.